An afternoon at the spa

It is rainy season here in Kuta, so every day is to some extent rainy. It's sheer luck when it isn't. We carry umbrellas and a plastic bag to protect my purse at all times.

Today, we managed to swim 200 yards to the nearest bar, then planted ourselves there through a couple of beers and Diet Cokes, and a couple of giant cheeseburgers with fried egg. These might also have included ham, had we wanted it, but enough is enough.

All this culinary excitement, and chatting with a nice Australian couple doing the same thing at the table next to us, could occupy us for only so long.  Bill kept eyeing the massage parlor across the street, as he has been doing every time we've sat in that bar.  He told me that, yesterday when I went for a head and neck massage elsewhere, he had begun smiling at the brown-uniformed girls sitting outside on its steps.  

It was only a matter of time.

"Let's go for a massage," he said. This from the guy who could barely sit still for a manicure-pedicure in Thailand. 

"It takes an hour," I reminded him.

Now a convert, he replied, "That's okay."

We hoisted our umbrellas and managed to cross the street. The slick, steep tile steps nearly undid us, but we managed to climb inside.

Mind you, there are some truly decadent spas right up the beach in Seminyak. 

These are the sort of hand-you-a-glass-of-chilled-wine, soak-you-in-rose-petals joints that I doubt I could get Bill into without a course of couples therapy. But Zen Relax Space, the modest establishment across the street, was right up our alley, so to speak. And an hour-long, full massage would cost us only $7 each. We could do this twice a day, every day!

When you enter a spa in a country where you speak very little of each other's languages, there is always a bit of introductory gesturing and fumbling about, as you are shown what you are meant to do. Here, we explained what we wanted and were quickly ushered up a winding flight of well-worn tile steps that still bore the frayed remnants of a red carpet.

It was dark and somehow soothing up there. The only light came from a tall window on the street and pierced-tin lamps glowing in the massage cubicles. The place was clean and smelled sweetly of essential oils, blessedly lacking the sour-sweatsocks odor of the spa where I'd gotten my head massaged. I doubt we would have felt nearly as relaxed in a Seminyak spa, especially given how much it would have cost.

We waited in wooden chairs outside the cubes as our two masseuses arranged our tables and drew aside the curtain that would normally have divided them. 

"Just underwear," one of them said as we entered our cubes. Then she handed each of us what looked like a plastic-wrapped black cigar. I looked at mine, confused. "Put on," she explained, gesturing toward our nether regions. What? How will Bill manage to use a black tampon, and why in God's name should he? Why should I, for that matter? I was beginning to think that Balinese massage was not what we had bargained for. 

I peeled my cigar open, and out popped a one-size-fits-all pair of compressed black-lace undies. Bill had doubts about this, but there was no way around it. They fit, they looked stupid, and we were good to go.

There's a lot to be said for allowing your body to be cared for, for an hour, as if you were a baby again. First, they will ask how roughly you want to be handled.  They apparently could have been much rougher than they were with us. I overheard one bloke tell the masseuse to make his girlfriend scream, and the girl did not protest.  Once our own pampering began, there was hardly a sound out of either of us for the rest of the hour. Thankfully, there was none out of the girlfriend either.

Front and back, neck, head, arms, legs, fingers, toes, every inch was oiled, kneaded, rolled, smoothed, popped, and stretched. Even our ears were bent over and touched as if being gently inspected by curious marmosets. After each segment was finished, it got a series of hand cups, pounds, slaps, and brisk whisking motions up into the air, as if to tell it, "Okay, you're done now. Time to wake up and let the blood flow!" Then it was gently bathed in warm water and dried softly.

I later asked another masseuse what the whisking motions were for.  She explained, "Gramma would tell you ... oh, how you say? Take away bad and throw away." 

With the help of a charming wooden clock on the shelf above our heads, the girls played us like a tight jazz combo, their work perfectly synchronized. I heard similar cupping, slapping, and whisking noises coming from Bill's side of the aisle simultaneously with mine. The evil spirits were being tossed into the air with abandon. You could almost hear their little shrieks.

Balinese massage, I later read, is a "full-body, deep-tissue, holistic treatment" that uses acupressure, reflexology, and the aromatherapy of essential oils to stimulate the flow of blood, oxygen, and qi (energy). The result is not only physical, but also spiritual, healing. Even the mid-forehead "third eye" received attention.

I swear I could see better and with more human kindness when I went back out on the street. I smiled at everyone, even street hawkers whom I usually ignore.